


Rejected

by Annabelle_W



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, First Time, M/M, Omega Dean, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-07-16 15:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16088759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabelle_W/pseuds/Annabelle_W
Summary: Dean knows that Sam is his mate.  But Sam keeps rejecting him over and over.  Why?  Is he unaware they're mates?  Does he prefer females?  Does he think it's wrong?And will Dean survive the constant heartbreak?





	1. Beginnings

1995

Everyone expected me to be an alpha. As I neared my sixteenth birthday, I was tall and muscular and confident and independent. I liked classic cars and classic rock and women. I preferred sports to books. I fought with my teachers (when I bothered to attend class). I lived for hunting. Girls gasped "You're so alpha!" in bed (or the backseat of the impala or the maintenance closet or behind the bleachers or wherever). School counselors praised my assertiveness, informed me I could be a great leader someday. Alpha hunters accepted me as one of them, offering me beer (or whiskey) and smokes at the completion of successful hunts.

But. My interactions with my baby brother more closely resembled those of mothers (or oms) and sons than brothers. Or even fathers and sons. Nurturing. I gravitated towards babies and small children, had to suppress an urge to coo over them even as I flirted with their moms. I loved cooking, often found myself experimenting with cheap ingredients to make the convenience food we had to eat more interesting, more appealing. I longed for a real kitchen, complete with cookbooks and high-quality (or, at least, high-flavor) food that I could make into delicious meals for my brother and me. I found cleaning satisfying. Given a spare couple of hours, I would often scrub our dingy motel room du jour. And I obeyed every order given by my alpha father without question. Unusual behavior for a hormone-addled teenage boy. Particularly an alpha.

So, I'm not surprised when I wake up a week before turning sixteen, soaking with the sweat desperately trying to cool down my burning body, lying in pool of slick, and feeling like my insides were placed in a food processor.

"You smell good, Dean," eleven and a half year old Sam murmurs sleepily.

"Yes, he does." Dad's voice is emotionless, but lower than usual. The expression on his face when I dare to look up is a mixture of horror and disappointment. 

*

1999  
April

I'm lounging on the surprisingly comfortable couch in the motel room Dad dropped us off at four days ago. Sam has already enrolled himself in the local high school, so he's covered the table with books, papers, pencils, and notebooks. Also, the laptop he somehow managed to scrape up enough money to purchase. Dad said he would be back in two weeks, which might mean two weeks, two months, or half a year. I know Sam is hoping for a couple of months, so he can finish the school year in one place. 

Sam turns sixteen in two weeks, so he should be presenting soon. Any time now, really. 

I set down my car magazine and study him. My brother is small and sweet and pretty. Big eyes, longish hair, delicate features. I've caught more than a few adult males eyeing him speculatively. He loves school. He prefers researching monsters to actually hunting them. He seeks diplomatic solutions to conflicts with other kids, even bullies. 

Could Sam be an omega? Like me? Hmm.

I lean back against the couch as I light the cigarette my body is starting to beg for.

I never intended to become a smoker (does anyone?) but. Well. Scent blockers aren't infallible. They start to slip when I'm sweating from chasing a werewolf or dripping slick after catching sight of a tall, built, dark-haired alpha (I still prefer girls, but my inner omega swoons in the presence of alphas who look like they could manhandle me). Anyway, once people realize I'm not beta (I'm no longer mistaken for an alpha), they treat me differently. Previously flirtatious women chatter about clothes and movie stars and other chick topics while eyeing other men. Meanwhile previously friendly men are buying me drinks and whispering compliments. Worse are the hunters, who feel the need to protect me instead of working with me. It's irritating. But I noticed at one of the last teen parties I ever attended (before dropping out of high school and spending my free evenings exclusively at bars) that the rank odor of nicotine covered up any sweet omega scent that slipped through my blockers. I was an addict within a month.

"Do you have to do that in here?" Sam is glaring at me, his hazel eyes crackling with disgust.

I raise an eyebrow. Sam has never hidden his disdain for my habit--I'll won't ever forget his shocked disillusionment the first time he saw me smoking--but he's never been so vocal about it before. Adolescent irritability? I shrug, replying, "We did get a smoking room."

His eyes flash. He launches into a rant about carcinogens, stench, and the harmful effects of second-hand smoking.

I ignore him, take another drag.

"JUST. QUIT. SMOKING!" He slams his book on the table.

I open my mouth to snark back. Blink. Watch the hand clutching the cig crush it into the ashtray, push the tray away. I try to take out another one and wind up throwing out the pack.

There is only one explanation.

*

Civil war erupts in my body. My addict brain uses all the tricks of psychological and physical withdrawal in an effort to convince me to take a hit of the drug it so desperately craves. My omega stops every attempt I make to satisfy my addict. Naturally, he emerges victorious.

Sam notices my smokeless state, takes a break from his newly perpetual grumbling self-absorption to tell me, with a bit of a shy smile, "I would say I'm proud of you, but you're my big brother, so I'll just say I'm impressed. I know how hard that had to be. Quitting, I mean." He bites the inside of his cheek, looks up at me with big, affectionate eyes.

I think I would have quit on my own if I'd known this would be my reward. Sammy's happiness has always been among my biggest priorities.

Still. An unpresented kid should not be able to order my omega around. Only my mate can do that. At least, that's what I thought. But Sam can't be my mate. He's my brother. Wouldn't that result in two-headed babies or something? And, anyway, I'm not attracted to him. Because he's my baby brother. I shudder at the thought.

While Sam's at school, I head to the public library. It really isn't comforting to learn my suspicions were correct. An omega is compelled to obey orders given in an 'alpha voice' by his or her mate. At least he (or she) is only one with that power. It's harder to find information on sibling mates. But eventually I discover that they're rare, but not unheard of. Sometimes siblings are sufficiently different genetically that they can safely reproduce. And on some extremely rare occasions, siblings are actually true mates. Incest is illegal. Everywhere. But an exception can be granted if a blood test proves dissimilarity. I consider this. Sam and I don't look alike, don't share the same interests, have different personalities. But instead of clashing, we mesh. 

Sam is my mate.

*

June

Dad didn't even call on Sam's birthday, but he conveniently arrives the day after my brother took his last final. Whatever. Something tells me completing the semester would have been Sam's birthday wish, anyway.

He flops down in the room's only easy chair. "Pack your bags. We leave in the morning."

Since we learned at a very early age to never fully unpack, this doesn't take long. Ten minutes after the order, our bags are piled by the door, Sam has returned to his Harry Potter novel, and I'm sitting close to Dad, fiddling with my discman.

Dad nods in approval, pulls out a pack of smokes, offers me one.

I shake my head, glancing at my brother. Does Sam know that he's the reason I broke the habit (or had it broken for me)?--does he have any inkling that we're . . . we're . . . destined for each other?

"You quit or something?" Dad is blinking at me in surprise.

"Or something." There's no way I'm going to tell my father that I think my kid brother is my alpha.

Dad shrugs, lights his own cigarette.

"I wish someone else would, too." Sam glares at Dad before stomping outside with his book, making sure to slam the door behind him.

Dad mutters something about Omega sensibilities. A moment later, he asks in an audible tone, "He present yet?"

"Not yet." I've been discretely sniffing the air every morning, and Sam's scent still possesses the soft, indistinct sweetness of a child.

"Should be any day now." Dad starts cleaning his gun. "You should take him shopping for supplies."

I can't suppress a snort. "I don't think that will be necessary."

*

Sure enough, the next morning I awake to the enticing smell of cinnamon, coffee, old books, campfires. I want to move closer, curl up, bask in that scent. Mate, my nose tells me, confirming what my brain had figured out. But, oh, the difference between knowing something and feeling it.

I breathe in deeply, open my eyes, look at my brother. My mate.

He's still sleeping, snoring a bit, his mouth open. Revealing his brand new alpha fangs. His eyes are closed, but not squeezed shut; there's a glimmer of red peeping out beneath the lids. His blankets are pooled around his legs--he must have pushed them down during the night. Maybe during the fever of his change. It doesn't matter. Doesn't compute. Doesn't . . . anything. All I can see, all I can think about is the unmistakable alpha knot poking up under his sleep pants. 

I wonder dazedly what it would feel like. I've never been knotted before--only been with girls. What have I been missing? My womb clenches, my channel starts gushing slick.

There's a gasp. I raise my head to find crimson eyes gaping at me, filled with hunger, longing, affection.

I can feel my own eyes burn golden in response.

We stumble out of our beds, reaching for each other.

"Boys."

We both freeze at the command (and reprimand) in Dad's voice.

"Dean," he orders, "go shower. You smell like a bakery made too much pie." He wrinkles his nose. "Sam!" His face lights up with surprised joy and pride as he turns to my brother. "Congratulations!"

Sam's forehead wrinkles in confusion. "I didn't do anything. I mean, I aced my finals, but . . . ." His voice (did it deepen over night?) trails away.

"You're an alpha!" Dad announces.

"No kidding." Sam's big eyes--hazel again--plead with me for help. "I don't see how that's anything special."

I'm not sure how to tell him that his designation means that he will automatically be awarded the respect, admiration, commendation that the rest of us have to work so hard for. So I just say, "You're a man now, bro." and clap his back.

"Yes, you are." Dad beams at Sam. He slings an arm around his shoulders. "And, you know what? I think we can defer our hunt for another day. Why don't you go find yourself a nice omega?" He hands Sam a couple of fifties.

"Whatever," Sam replies. He takes the money. "My girlfriend's an omega, anyway."

My heart stops. Sam mentioned a girl a few times in the past few weeks, but I didn't realize he was actually dating her. Or that she's an omega. And now he's going to go lose his second virginity to her.

And not me.

*

2001  
August

Dad and Sam are standing nose to nose screaming at each other. Not an unusual sight. Any time they've been in the same room for more than a few minutes during the past two years, they've been unable to refrain from fighting. My sweet, shy, geeky little brother disappeared the day he presented. He's been replaced by an aggressive, rebellious, dominant, huge (he's taller than Dad now and still growing), powerful alpha. Okay, he's still geeky.

Despite (or because of) the constant posturing, Sam is undeniably Dad's favorite. He conveniently needed to join forces with every single hunter acquaintance, one after the other (except Bobby Singer--still not sure what happened between them), in the months after Sam presented. Dad makes sure to show off his alpha son on any pretext to anyone he might want to impress.

I think sometimes they both forget I exist until I step between them in an effort to play peacemaker, to end whatever needless dispute they're arguing over on any given day. 

This fight, though, is different.

"You walk out that door, you don't ever come back!" There's an air of finality in Dad's tone. He means it.

"What makes you think I want to come back?" Sam's rejoinder is icy, disdainful. He shoots Dad a final, withering glare before shouldering his back and leaving the room.

No. No. He can't. He can't leave. He can't leave me. 

I'm racing after him before I realize I've moved.

"Sam!" I cry out when I draw close to his retreating frame. "Dad. He didn't mean it. I'm sure. He'll forgive you. You can come back."

My brother looks down at me, his (handsome) face tense, his eyes sad. "Dean. I meant it. I don't want to go back. I'm not like him. I'm not a hunter."

"But I . . . I'm a hunter." Is he asking me to give up the only life I've ever lead, the only life I've ever wanted to lead? Go be his mate in California and do what, exactly? 

He grips my shoulders. "I know. Go hunt. Take care of Dad. Save the world." He smiles a little, his eyes bright with unshed tears. 

"Without you?" That can't be what he means.

He nods, biting his cheek. "You have your life; I have mine." A tear drips down his (chiseled) cheek. "Call me if you need a lawyer. You know, in a few years." He turns.

"Wait." I throw myself in his arms, bury my face against his neck, inhale his tempting aroma.

He hugs me back, scents me in turn. But he still walks away. From me. From us.

My mate has rejected me.


	2. Stanford Visit

2003

Beep.

"Hey, Dean. It's Sam. Um. It's midnight. So, it's your birthday. Twenty-four. I always thought you'd be mated by now. But. I'm kind of glad you're not. I don't know why. Maybe I'm just happy you and Dad are out there keeping the world safe for penniless college students." A chuckle. "Anyway, have a fun birthday and beat up any alpha who gets too close. Unless you want him to. Or her. Or. You know what? Yes. Beat up any alpha who gets too close. And. Um. I miss you. Bye."

Beep.

*

I nibble a cold fry, take a sip of warm beer. We've been in this diner (and I've been pretending to eat and drink) for almost three hours. Dad is reminiscing about hunts gone by with the alpha who joined us on a case that looked like the work of witches but turned out to be ghosts (of witches). Apparently, Dad and Nate (?) have known each other for fifteen or sixteen years, depending on who tells the story.

Nate finishes what, by my count, has to be his fifth beer. He pulls out his wallet. "Well," he announces, "I think I'm ready for something stronger. What say we head to the bar?" He steals one of my untouched fries. "Besides, the waitress isn't my type." He winks at me.

The lethargic ennui that had blanketed me since we arrived snaps. I blink in shock. Does this overweight, alcoholic neanderthal think he's flirting with me? My blockers must have worn off. Great. I narrow my eyes at Nate. "You have a point," I inform him. "There really isn't anyone attractive in here."

Dad glances rapidly between us, moves a little closer to me. "Why don't you go ahead, Nate." He waves his arm in dismissal. "Maybe we'll meet you there."

Nate hesitates. I glare. He stomps out, muttering about expletive uptight omegas, expletive, expletive, expletive.

That clears up any lingering questions about the state of my blockers.

Dad studies me, gifting me a rare moment of the attention usually reserved for monsters in general and the yellow-eyed demon in particular. A foreign sense of well-being invades me. I resist the urge to lean against my father and bask in the (likely brief) love and concern softening his features, mellowing his scent.

"Son," he asks, finally, "How long have you been starving yourself." He inclines his head in the direction of my nearly-full plate.

I haven't been starving myself, have I? "I'm just not that hungry tonight." I insist. "Maybe being leered at my knotheads takes my appetite away."

He raises an eyebrow. "That would only account for tonight. And you haven't been eating enough for months." He purses his lips. "That shirt," he points at my Pink Floyd t-shirt, "used to be much tighter."

I want to sputter, squawk, argue, tell him he's mistaken. But deference to my father is completely ingrained within me. I dip my head in submission. "I'll eat more," I promise. "I know I have to stay strong if I want to be a good hunter."

He tilts my chin back up. "Son, you're an excellent hunter. I'm proud of you."

I gasp. Since when does John Winchester compliment his omega son?

"But I think you need a break." His serious eyes bore into mine.

I shake my head. I'm not an invalid. Nor am I a delicate flower. I'm certainly not a failure. "I don't think I need to be benched, Sir."

"You don't." He rubs the top of my left hand. Almost tenderly. "But you're wearing yourself out. Maybe you're depressed. I don't know." He lets go of my hand. "I just think you should take a week off. Go to Vegas, maybe. Find a knot."

I grimace. "Not interested in alphas. Sir." Well, only the one whose voice messages I listen to over and over. But Dad really doesn't need to know I'm pining for my absent brother.

"Find a girl, then." He adds a few bills to the money Nate left on the table. "I didn't realize you still . . . . I mean, you haven't gone after a girl in months. You didn't even notice the waitress." He jerks his thumb towards an aproned blonde woman. She might not be Nate's type, but she's mine. Or, she normally would be.

"Okay," I agree. 

"Good," he says. "I'll meet you in a week, in Reno." He stands up. "You know what? Here." He hands me the keys to the Impala.

I take them reverently. "How will you . . . ?--Are you going to get a ride with Nate?"

"I haven't decided, but" his eyes flash red "he's never going near you again." He saunters out of the diner.

*

I spot Sam immediately; he's grown even taller, so he towers over his fellow students. Visiting my prodigal brother was clearly not what Dad had in mind when he ordered me to take a vacation, but when he suggested finding a knot, my mind helpfully presented an image of Sam pushing into my body, and it's been playing on repeat ever since. Being knotted by my mate shouldn't be an impossible dream. I have to know--I just have to know if there's any chance, any chance at all, that Sam recognizes who we are to each other--that we're meant to be together.

Sam comes to a stop a few feet away from where I'm leaning against the Impala. His eyes widen as he takes in the gleaming curves of my Baby. "Is Dad here, too?" He sounds mildly apprehensive, but the flare of red in his hazel irises, the stiffness of his broadening shoulders, the clench of his gigantic fists, tell me that the thought of coming face to face with our father actually has him preparing not to cower or run, but to fight. Good thing Dad is off wherever Dad is.

I flash him the smile that has betas slipping me their numbers and alphas begging for just one night. "Nope. It's just me. Dad let me take the car."

He lets out a breath. His eyes lighten. His shoulders soften. His hands relax. "Wow. So Dad let you borrow the car." He shakes his head in amazement. "He never even let me drive it."

I smirk at him. "Think that might have something to do with all your alpha aggression?" Young, unmated alphas get in more car accidents than every other group of people. By far.

He smirks back. "Probably." 

Our eyes meet. Connect. Fuse us together. I'm trapped in his gaze, staring at a face that has firmed from boyish prettiness into masculine handsomeness.

Sam blinks, clears his throat. "So, I can show you where you can park. I mean, if you're going to stay for awhile?" He runs a slightly shaking hand through his hair.

"That's the plan," I respond with a wink, elated by my mate's reaction to a mere exchange of glances. (Okay, long searching looks).

I saunter around the car, climb in the driver's seat. Turn to watch Sam fold his long, lean body into the passenger's side. 

My boxer-briefs are more than a little damp as I start the engine.

*

Sam concludes my tour of Stanford with his favorite building, the library. (Of course). Turns out he has shifts there, three times a week, since he was able to get a work-study position on top of his scholarship.

He exchanges greetings with coworkers, supervisors, students, professors, and introduces me to everyone with the same proud intonation he's been using all day. I suppress a wish that he would refer to me as his omega instead of his brother. At least all of these friends, bosses, and acquaintances know I'm his in some form.

"Hey, Sam." A tall, pretty brunette greets my brother. "Are you working on that poli-sci paper?"

Sam gives her an easy smile. "No. I've already written it. Or, most of it, anyway. Just need to do a final run-through, check my sources. You know." He shrugs, downplaying his excessive nerdiness.

The girl moves closer. I open my mouth to growl at her, inform her that Sam is unavailable. Instead, my jaw drops the moment she gets within a few steps. She's an alpha. Her eyes widen as she sniffs the air. She turns to me, looks me up and down appreciatively.

I gasp as I'm yanked to Sam's side. "Cindy," he says through gritted teeth. "This is Dean, my . . . my Dean."

Her eyes swiftly flit between. "I see," she comments. "I'll see you in class, then."

Sam leaves his arm around my shoulder as he leads me into the stacks, shows me "his" study nook. It's a small group of desks in a secluded area, surrounded by shelves of heavy tomes, all labeled with the letter Q. My geeky brother cheerfully explains what that means and how it fits into the Library of Congress system. Whatever happened to Dewey Decimal? 

Still, though. His face is glowing with joy and earnestness. His eyes are sparkling, capturing the light in starry pinpricks. Beautiful. He's beautiful. I love the curl of his too-long dark hair, the angle of his high cheekbones, the curve of his rosy lips. And . . . . 

When did he stop chattering?

Was it in response to my inadvertently adoring gaze? Or maybe not. Based on the fact that he isn't exactly staring into my eyes. Instead, fiery, lust-blown orbs are trained hungrily on my open mouth.

I've been with enough people (okay, girls) to know when someone wants me. So, this is all the invitation I need.

I lunge forward, crush my lips to his.

He freezes.

I freeze in response. Did I read this wrong?

Next thing I know, I'm pressed against the nearest shelf, with Sam's mouth plundering mine.

My eyes drop shut. My arms wind around him; one hand grips his bicep, the other grasps his hair. My jeans grow tight and wet. At the same time, I feel safe, cocooned against the world in my brother's arms.

It's heady, exciting, satisfying. It's . . . .

Over?

Sam throws himself backward, away from me. His eyes are wild, horrified. Remorseful. "I'm so sorry, Dean. I can't believe I just did that. You just smell so good. It overwhelmed me and I . . . ."

"Sam."

"No. That sounds like a rapist's excuse. I've promise I've never done anything like this before."

"Sam."

"And to my own brother. The man who raised me. What is wrong with me? What must you think of me?"

"Sam!"

He stops rambling and looks at me, eyes suspiciously bright, face flushed, lips still kiss-swollen. 

I hold out my hands placatingly. "It's okay. You didn't do anything wrong."

His mouth imitates a fish for a moment, opening and closing. "I practically molested you. I . . . . How could I have done that?"

I roll my eyes, swallow my fury that my mate could misinterpret a makeout session so dramatically. "It was a kiss, Sam! And it was consensual. No one molested anyone."

He catches his breath, bites the inside of his cheek. "You're right. I'm making a big deal out of nothing. We must have really missed each other. Guess we both need to get laid!" He forces a laugh.

I feel a little faint, a bit nauseous. "So, you didn't actually want to kiss me?"

He shudders. "Of course not. I really don't know what came over me." He swallows some apparent bile. "Let's forget it ever happened."

"Yeah. Let's." I certainly want to forget the sight of my alpha's disgust over locking lips with me.

He nods, backs even further away from me. "So, how long did you say you're staying?"

"I'm not." If I spend much longer in my brother's company, I'll embarrass us both by bawling like a stereotypical omega. "In fact, I should be heading out."

"Oh. Okay." He exhales.

Does his relief have to be quite so palpable?

*

I spend the rest of my week off in Vegas, drowning myself in alcohol and sex. And, occasionally, other substances. 

Dad takes a moment to examine me when I enter his motel room in Reno. He frowns at my bloodshot eyes and unwashed hair. "Well," he says, "at least your color's better."

Is it? Come to think of it, I feel more energetic than I did a week ago, even after my heartbreak-fueled bender. I guess spending a few hours with my mate improved my health. Apparently, rom-coms aren't lying when they insist that omegas can't live without their alphas. (Once they've recognized their mates, obviously). I heave a sigh.

At least I still have Dad. Who might be wanting his car back, come to think of it. I pull the keys out of my pocket.

"Listen, son." Dad's voice is very serious.

"Yes, Sir?"

"I'm getting close to finding the yellow-eyed demon, and I need to concentrate on that. I can't be protecting you."

Excuse me? "I don't need protection. Sir."

A sad half-smile. "I know. But I'm an alpha. It's in my nature to try to protect you. And right now I need to focus entirely on the monster who killed your mother." He picks up his bag. "You can keep the Impala." He heads out the door. "I'll call you every couple days."

He drives off in a big black truck. 

I'm alone.


	3. Infidelity

2005  
October

The beta bouncing on top of me is gorgeous, all long limbs and the dark skin of her Creole ancestry. Her curly black hair falls over one beautiful eye to brush against her high cheekbone as she leans over me. Every time she drops down, the plug I slid inside before heading to the bar pushes against my omega channel, causing me to gasp and moan. It's been a long time since I've been able to come on frontal stimulation alone.

I tried alphas and beta males. Sort of. A couple of times I scrubbed off my blockers and went out as the omega I am. Invariably, I found myself surrounded by male and female alphas, flirting, posturing, buying me drinks. I've always been social, so I enjoyed the attention. I even found several of them attractive. But I returned to my motel room alone. None of them were tall enough. The men's hair was too short, the women's too long. Their hands were too small. Their eyes too dark or too light and always too unchanging. Their conversation was too shallow, too conciliatory; their voices too loud, too rough, too deep or not deep enough. None of them were Sam.

So I bought stronger blockers and began wearing a popular beta cologne called Alpha Essence. It doesn't make me (or anyone) smell like an alpha. But it does complete the illusion that I am a virile beta, not an omega. It's pricey--very, very pricey--but. Well. I took some math courses while studying for my GED and I am spending far less on my expensive cologne than I was on my now nonexistent (thanks to my mate) smoking habit.

The girl--Estelle--swivels her hips while driving down onto me. The plug nails my body, hitting all of my sensitive internal spots. I scream, unloading into the condom she insisted on (I didn't bother to tell her that a) I'm clean and b) it is literally impossible for me to impregnate someone). She climbs off me, collapses beside me, gasping for air.

We face each other with sleepy, contented, post-coital smiles.

"I would give you my number," Estelle murmurs, "but I'm not Sam."

I can feel the blood drain from my face. "Did I . . . ?" Scream my brother's name during sex?

She chuckles, a low, sensual sound. "You did. She your ex?"

The blood rushes back to my face. Her guess is so close to reality. "He's my . . . my . . . ."

She nods sympathetically. "He still in the closet?" She glances at her own nakedness. "Or are both of you?"

I shrug. "Something like that." 

Her assumption is a common one. After all, I can't always hide my instinctive reaction to alpha hormones. Or the admiring looks (and, occasionally, flirtatious smirks) I direct toward men of the tall, handsome variety. I once visited a beta gay club, went home with a lanky, dark-haired man. It was fun. Wonderful, really, to be filled for once (even if it wasn't quite enough and he could not knot me). But I felt so dirty and guilty afterwards, like I'd been cheating on my mate, that I never did it again.

Anyway, I've been sleeping with beta girls--people with whom I cannot reproduce--so wouldn't that make me something other than straight? 

I really don't mind the assumptions.

Estelle is dressing, covering up her magnificently toned body bit by bit.

I admire the view for a minute before pulling my phone out of my discarded jacket. No missed calls. No voicemails. No texts. It's past midnight, which means it has been exactly two weeks since I last heard from Dad--Dad, who always contacts me at least once a week. He's missing. Injured, captured, who knows?

I should be worried, devastated and a part of me is. But mostly, I'm elated. Because I need help locating him.

I have an excuse to visit Sam--an excuse to see my alpha.

*

November

I feel whole again. Sam is with me. We just defeated the Woman in White. Sam is with me. We fit together as seamlessly as ever despite our years apart. Sam is with me. Sure, he has a girlfriend, but she's a tall, athletic, green-eyed, freckled omega. She's the female version of me. Sam is with me. He's grinning at me from the passenger seat of the Impala, looking like he belongs there. Sam is with me.

We stop at a motel halfway to Stanford, so we can shower, change out of our dirty, bloody clothes, patch each other up (if necessary), maybe sleep for a few hours. 

On top of my euphoria over the presence of my mate and the satisfaction of completing a hunt with him, it feels heavenly to slide clean clothes over my freshly-scrubbed body. It feels even better to saunter out of the tiny bathroom and spot my mate sitting on one of the beds, flipping through Dad's journal. His bangs have grown so long they're falling into his eyes. Is he trying to cover his beautiful face?

My hands twitch, urging me to brush those silky curls off his forehead.

Sam jerks, sniffs the air. Crimson eyes flash. He slowly rises to his feet, every inch the alpha predator. He throws the journal aside, prowls toward me, buries his face in my neck.

"Dean," he moans, "you smell so good. You should never wear scent blockers. Or whatever that cologne is."

I reflect vaguely that it's good he didn't make that an order.

Gentle hands grip my face, tilt my head. Soft lips press against mine.

Electricity surges between us, live wires sparking me. I throw my arms around him, dig my nails into his back, pull his body as close to mine as possible.

He growls into my mouth. Starts clawing at my clothes, ripping them in his haste to pull them off. I hasten to follow, pushing his shirts up and over his head, only allowing our lips to separate for the briefest moment.

His bare chest is warm and huge and defined. He's rock hard beneath his jeans, with just the barest hint of his knot swelling against my stomach.

I gasp, cling to him still tighter.

He chuckles, slides a finger down my back, under my pants. Inside me.

My mate is caressing my channel.

Fireworks. Home. Explosions.

I'm coming. Just from one scorching finger.

"Wow." An awed whisper. Sam pulls out his digit, rubs circles on my bottom, cycling them up around to my lower back. "You're amazing," he adds. "So beautiful."

I preen under my alpha's praise. "So are you." I wink. "Bed?" I grab his hand.

He doesn't budge, just stares at our entwined fingers.

Ice creeps into my veins. "What? What's wrong?"

"She was right." His voice is low, anguished. Hazel eyes without a hint of red peer through dark bangs.

"Who?" My blood freezes, ice crystals multiplying, it it circulates through my heart.

"The Woman in White." He gulps. "She said I would be unfaithful. She was right." He sinks down onto the nearest bed--the one I was trying to lead him to--and drops his head in his hands. "How could I have done this?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

He looks up. Tears are gathering in his eyes. Distantly, it occurs to me that they look gorgeous--big, luminous, reflecting the blue of the comforter. "I'm planning to marry her. Jess. How could I have cheated on her?"

Rage tears through me. I want to rip Jess apart. Sam has it backwards. He's the smart one: he should know that the Woman in White only targeted alphas who cheat on their mates, not alphas with the potential to be unfaithful. She picked him because he was cheating on me! How does he not see that?

Sam is playing with a loose string on the comforter, pulling it, twisting it, tying it in knots. (I sympathize). "And what am doing to you? You're my big brother and here I am behaving like a knothead just because you smell so good." He pulls his knees up, wraps his arms around them. "I'm a freak."

I force a smile, even as I'm hiding my own despair. "Hey, don't worry about it. You smell good, too. It's just hormones. We're still wound up from the hunt. Don't worry about it." I'm almost whispering by the end, my bravado failing me. 

He nods. "I'm going to take a shower. Then we should leave."

*

Jess is dead. Sam is in a deep state of grief. I shouldn't be happy. I. Should. Not. But my mate is available and he's by my side for the foreseeable future. The Impala is purring as we race down the highway, blasting ACDC. We have no idea where Dad is. We've never known how to find and kill the yellow-eyed demon. Sam will be with me for a long time. Long enough for me to win him--to convince him to knot me, claim me, stay with me forever.

I sing along to the radio, tap out the beat on the steering wheel.

Sam will be mine. He will be.


	4. After the Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Try not to hate Sam too much.

2006  
September

Flames dancing, flickering, licking, devouring. Nibbling fingers, sucking toes, swallowing hair. Fire singing. Eyebrows crackling, blood sizzling, veins popping. The conflagration burns through cloth, bubbles skin, blackens organs, munches on bones. Eats and eats and eats, destroying every layer of my proud, powerful, driven, ultimately self-sacrificing father, until all that is left is ash. And even that scatters, skitters, bounces, blows away. Leaving nothing.

We stumble away from the final curls of smoke, drive through the early morning fog to our motel, stumble to our beds, sleep until darkness reigns again.

I sit up, blink away the raging wildfires that consumed my dreams. I wonder blearily what time it is but I'm feeling too lazy to locate my phone. Maybe I could ask Sam. Smothering a yawn, I turn to do just that, only to be greeted by an empty bed. He's gone.

All residual drowsiness drains out of me. Gone. Could my mate have left me? He hasn't been quiet about his intention to return to California once we found Dad and killed his demon. Granted, Yellow-eyes is still alive but the mission to locate our father is very much at an end. That might be enough for Sam. Still, he wouldn't leave without telling me. At least, I don't think he would. And anyway--there's a click as the door is unlocked--here he is.

Sam strides through the door, all long legs and alpha confidence, lugging a twelve-pack of beer and two bottles of whiskey. He pauses when he catches sight of me. "Here," he says, in his soft, empathic voice, "I got you a burger."

*

We're sprawled on Sam's bed, surrounded by empty bottles. Damp curls trail down Sam's forehead, falling into glassy eyes, shadowing his flushed face. His flannel is discarded on the floor; sweat soaks his grey v-neck, molding it to his toned body. His voice is slurred, but expressive. "So he said to me 'Son, we're hunting werewolves, not deer. You aim like that and they'll be laughing while they eat your heart.'" 

A beat, as that descriptive picture unfolds in my mind, and I'm laughing as hard as Dad's theoretical werewolves. No,wait, I'm crying. No, laughing. No, laughing and crying at once, tears cascading down my cheeks as guffaws pour from my mouth. A shaking arm wraps around me, a drop of water lands on my head, a chortle caresses my ear. Sam is in the same state.

I look up into mirthful, watery eyes. He looks back. His pupils expand while his irises stripe and bleed until the hazel is completely submerged in alpha red.

My laughter fades, my tears dry. I lean closer.

We're kissing. Scratch that: we're mauling each other's mouths. While pulling hair, scratching backs, ripping clothes. Sam's pressing me into the mattress, twisting my nipples, rubbing my groin, pushing my legs apart. I'm gushing slick. There's a nudge against my opening, a squelching sound, pressure stretching my channel. He's inside.

Sam is inside me. This is actually happening.

I have a moment to reflect that my beta lover really did not compare before Sam starts moving. Miniature explosions of pleasure blast through me with every thrust. I throw my head back, gasping for air, already on the brink.

Sam grows impossibly larger, his knot swelling within me. A feral scream rips out of me. Teeth pierce the skin of my neck. I cry "Sammy!" as I come.

Sam's knot catches on my womb, tying us together. A groan that resembles my name, a gush of warmth within me, a giant collapsing atop me.

He takes a moment to catch his breath before flipping us over, in a practiced move that reminds me I am far from the only omega he's been with. A cool bead of blood slithers down my neck, drips onto Sam, reminding me that I am the only omega he's claimed. I smile down at him. He gazes up at me through his bangs, his eyes hazy, tender, content, still burning with a hint of red. Those bangs. I brush them off his forehead, lean back, smile at the difference. The cute, shy boy has been replaced by a devastatingly handsome man. "Gorgeous," I murmur, "you should always wear your hair like this."

His answering chuckle morphs into a snore.

*

The hot water of my morning shower sluices down my aching body, soothing my sore thighs, rear. My mating bite tingles when I wash my neck. I have a mild headache from over-imbibing last night, but nothing could pop my rosy bubble. I'm humming "Take on Me"--a song I would never admit to liking--while drying my hair.

Sam is still asleep, crashed on his stomach with one hand under his pillow and the other knuckling the floor, so I give up my vague idea of a morning knotting and get dressed, head out in search of coffee and breakfast. 

He's stirring when I return, groaning, pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead. "Remind me never to drink that much again," he grunts, taking the coffee I press into his hand.

"Yeah, dude," I reply, "you smell like rancid beer. I don't need to wake up to that."

A half smile quickly covered by a familiar expression of irritation. His pale face is shiny with sweat, his eyes bloodshot.

"Plus," I add. "You look terrible. I don't want to be seen next to someone who looks like a zombie film reject."

Another half-smile. "Whatever, jerk."

I grin as I give my habitual response. It's good to know our new status hasn't changed our relationship.

He opens his mouth to respond, maybe with a good-natured brotherly insult of his own, but, instead, his already sickly pallor takes on an even greener hue. I rush over the waste-paper basket, getting it to him just in time.

After emptying his stomach, he collapses on the bed, throws an arm over his face. "Man, I don't even remember most of last night. Did I do anything embarrassing?"

I feel hollow, cold. "Not embarrassing, no." 

He removes his hand, sips more coffee. "Good." He sits up again, frowning, sniffing the air, taking in the obvious fact that only one bed has been slept in. A flash of horror crosses his face as he takes a closer look at me. "Tell me I didn't . . . didn't . . . ."

I think I can hear my heart shattering. I pull my collar higher over my mating mark. "You didn't."

*

November

The girl beside me is small, curvy, sexy, pretty, spunky, blonde. And she's been into me since the day we met. Jo and I are perched--almost relaxing--on the couch in the haunted apartment we rented together on the pretense of being beta mates. With my scent blockers, my Alpha Essence, and the concealer spread over my bite, no one can tell I'm actually a mated omega, so it wasn't hard to convince the apartment manager I'm with the pretty female beta instead of the huge, gorgeous male alpha. Sam smells mated, but it's subtle enough that it doesn't deter the swarms of hopeful omegas who are always hitting on him. Maybe they assume a youthful mistake. Why not? It's the truth.

I cover up my bitterness by taking a gulp of beer.

Jo clinks her bottle against mine before sipping her own drink. "So your father made you do target practice every day when you were ten?" She sounds shocked, a bit repulsed.

I smirk. "It's how I got so good."

Her expression turns coy. "Just how good are you?" She leans over, presses her lips to mine.

I recoil. Her lips are too soft, too full, too feminine. Her scent too sweet, too fruity. "Look, you're hot and I'm tempted, really, but your mother would kill me."

She raises an eyebrow. "Is it because we're both omegas?"

"What?" 

Now she's the one smirking. "You're not the only omega pretending to be a beta."

"How did you know?" Maybe I haven't been concealing my designation as well as I thought.

She finishes her beer. "I ran into you before you put on your blockers once. You know, when you were staying at the Roadhouse."

I fiddle with the label on my bottle. "Okay, but if you're an omega and you know I'm one, then why . . . ?"

"Why am I interested in you and not your big alpha of a brother?"

I nod.

She looks down at her empty bottle. "I'm gay. I'm only attracted to other omegas. I thought you might be the same. Or close, anyway." A wry laugh. "All those beta women."

I feel terrible. I almost wish I could be what she wants. "Yeah, I like betas, but not . . . not omegas. And I'm really not looking for anyone right now." No one except my uninterested mate, anyway. "I'm sorry."

*

2007  
March

Searing pain burns, blasts through my mating mark. I fall to my knees, gasping, sharp tears poking my eyes, clutching my neck. My bite is hot, pulsing, unbearably painful. I guess Sam likes potential werewolf Madison, since he's clearly cheating on me with her.

Why did Dad have to trade his life for mine? I should have stayed dead.


	5. The Unthinkable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay. My husband's was (and still is) in upheaval. Our bank account was miles below zero. My eight-year-old autistic son was screaming for hours on end, every day. My six-year-old daughter was rebelling like the teenager she will someday be (not looking forward to that). My four-year-old autistic son was refusing to sleep. I didn't think Dean's mindset would be very healthy for my mental state, so I took a week off from this story.

2007  
April

I relax into the sumptuous couch in the spacious, luxurious trailer of one of my favorite actresses. Gorgeous scream queen Tara Benchley has starred in many, many of my fantasies over the past decade. Granted, imaginary Tara's always grew longer, her shoulders wider, her chest flatter, her stomach more toned, muscular, her hair shorter, her face rougher, less delicate. But then, all my dream partners turn into Sam. That's really not a new phenomenon.

Tara tosses her shiny dark hair over her shoulder while laughing flirtatiously. What does it say about me that I can attract a stunning woman who is wanted by millions but not my own mate?

I move a little closer, deliberately brush her arm as I set my beer down on the coffee table, raise my eyebrows suggestively. "So," I begin, deepening my voice deliberately, "did you want to talk about crazy fans all night?"

Predictably, she throws herself into my arms. Not so predictably--especially to myself--I gently remove her. It's frustrating: I used every seductive technique in my arsenal to earn myself an invitation to Tara's bed. I wanted to forget about Sam for a blissful hour while simultaneously revenging myself on him for cheating on me with, of all people, a werewolf. I wanted him to feel the searing pain he visited on me. Plus, it's worse for alphas. An alpha's infidelity causes his omega's mating bite to burn: an omega's infidelity causes his alpha an intense headache while bumps form on the top of his (or her) head. It's described as growing horns and it means that everyone in the vicinity is aware of the alpha's humiliation. It was an appealing thought when I was trying to sympathize with my mate's grief for his dead mistress. While trying not to scream that I'm the only omega he should want in his life and his bed. And, by the way, how did she not notice that he was unavailable--that he smells mated?

"Dean?" Tara sounds concerned. She's glancing from my clearly uninterested lap to my distant eyes. Her beautiful face is drawn in confusion and hurt.

"Sorry," I say. "It's just . . . I'm an omega."

She sits up straight. "Oh. I see." 

I don't bother to ask her what it is she sees. Beta women have trouble comprehending omega men. Sometimes they see me as a butch lesbian they want to experiment with, sometimes as a gay (potential) best friend, sometimes as one of the girls. Rarely do they continue to look at me as the hot guy they were hoping to hook up with. I don't douse myself with blockers and cologne merely so that alphas and male betas will view me as an equal instead of a conquest.

Tara relaxes back into the cushions, regarding me thoughtfully. "So that big alpha you're always hanging out with, is he your boyfriend?"

Is Sam my boyfriend? "Um." Unconsciously I seek him out through the bond that snapped into place when he claimed me. My brother is content and alone. Likely he retired to our motel room after the conclusion of this hunt. I picture him doing nerdy Sam things like reading while sprawled on his bed (What's that dragon book he likes? Eragon?) or researching serial killer trivia on his precious laptop or listening to emo music or marathoning Harry Potter films. The thought makes me smile. Another thought promptly makes that smile fade. If our mating bond is strong enough that I can sense Sam's emotions whenever I want, shouldn't the same be true of him? Isn't it? He has to know! But, then, why does he treat me like a brother? I can cover my bite and my scent but a bond goes deeper than its external manifestations. Maybe I'm somehow subconsciously blocking him. Maybe he thinks sensing my feelings is among his bizarre psychic abilities. Maybe he hates being mated to his brother so much that he's pretending our bond doesn't exist. Maybe he's convinced himself that it doesn't. And maybe I'm driving myself insane.

Tara tilts her lips sympathetically. "Unrequited love?" she asks, "On again, off again relationship?"

"Yes," I reply, "to both of those."

A mischievous glint lights her eyes. "We need Swayze."

So, she's one of those betas who sees a male omega as one of the girls. You know what? Poking fun of the plot (such as there is) of Dirty Dancing while admiring Patrick Swayze's muscles sounds like fun. More fun in the long run than having sex with someone who is too small, too soft, too curvy, too sweet. Too wrong.

*

May

Empty. Cold. Silent. Alone. Sam is dead, taken, gone forever. I want to scream in denial, shake his body, insist that he isn't dead, he can't be. Dead. But I know he is. I can feel it. Our bond broke--snapped--the moment his heart stopped beating. I'm alone. Mateless. Purposeless. I should throw myself on Sam's funeral pyre like the widowed omegas of centuries ago.

If I can bring myself to build one. I study Sam's body, lying (so still, so pale) on the bare, worn, dirty mattress where Bobby and I deposited him after dragging him into the nearest house of this dreary, haunted ghost town. I picture flames blackening, devouring his beautiful face, his long, lean, toned form. And I can't . . . I can't . . . . 

I can't let blistering, impersonal fire take away what little is left of my mate, my love, my life. I can't!

I hunch over, pulling at my hair, tempted to tear it out, wishing I could rip off my skin, bloody tatter by bloody tatter. I would welcome the intense crispness of the pain. So much better than my current, permanent hollowness. And I'd be disfigured, finally as ugly on the outside as I've always been inside. The only person I ever really wanted to look handsome for was Sam and he barely noticed me and now he's gone. Gone. Nothing left except this gorgeous empty vessel and . . . . My eyes pop open (when did I close them?). I can't mar my skin. Because then I would lose the only proof that I once belonged to Sam. My mating mark.

Is it even still there?

A second later, I'm standing in front of the wobbly, mottled mirror gracing one stained wall. I tilt my head, staring at the reflection of my neck. Nothing. There's nothing. My bite could still be concealed. I lick my hand and use the spit to rub at my throat, almost clawing it in my haste to remove all traces of makeup. There. It's there. So faint. But there. The indelible impression of Sam's alpha fangs. Yesterday, the mark was so maroon I had to cake concealer on it. Now, it's a pale, pale pink. Fading to white. Will it disappear completely? Please, no.

A bearded face appears behind me in the mirror. Bobby. His worried eyes are fixed on my scar. "So, it's true then? You and Sam."

There's no point denying it. I nod.

"I always wondered," he muses. "You were just so close. Too close."

I flinch.

His gruff face softens. "Sorry, kid. I was thinking aloud. Distracting myself from" he gestures at the bed "everything." He places a rough hand gently on my shoulder. "I can't pretend to understand alpha-omega relationships, since I'm neither, but when my wife was taken from me, I was devastated. All I could think about was revenge." Sympathetic eyes meet mine. "Is that what you need? It won't bring him back, but it might help you focus until . . . . Anyway, I can help you. We needed to find that yellow-eyed bastard anyway."

I stare at him dully. What's the point of continuing the quest for the yellow-eyed demon when the people for whom I adopted it lie dead? Mom, Dad, now Sam. Sam. My true mate. The other half of my soul. I don't have the energy for revenge. I just want to follow him into the afterlife (whatever that may be). I belong there anyway. I should be the one lying on that bed, not Sam. 

A tiny spark lights within deadened, sluggish heart. Maybe I can arrange that.

*

Sam sits across from me in yet another nameless motel room, tall and handsome and ruddy and vivid and concerned and alive, alive, alive! A lock of dark hair falls over one beautiful hazel eye, causing a shadow to curl down the tanned skin of one high cheekbone. He wears his hair brushed off his forehead, like he has since a few days after I suggested it on the night of our mating. (Does he really not remember that?) He's unbelievably, unbearably gorgeous.

And alive! So vitally, ebulliently, miraculously alive.

While Sam's nemesis is finally, finally dead! I did that. I killed the yellow-eyed demon, saving my brother, my Sam, my mate. I'm so giddy I want to spread my arms and spin in circles. I want Sam to spin me in circles. Those big alpha muscles have to be good for something. We should go to a dance club. Or we could stay here and renew our mateship.

Once he stops glowering at me.

"Dean," he begins, after glaring at me, arms crossed, for several minutes. "You really should not have sold your soul for me. I'm not worth it."

I gape at him. "Yes, you are. You're a genius. You have your life ahead of you. You could go back to school. Or . . . ."

He raises a hand. "That's not why." A sigh. "Look, I know you're afraid of being alone, but . . . you're not alone anymore. You have Bobby. And Ellen. And I know you like Jo."

Tell me my mate isn't trying to set me up with someone else. "Not like that."

He rubs a hand over his forehead. "Maybe not. But you're fond of her. She's family. They all are. You don't need me anymore."

My jaw drops. I blink. I scramble for my armor of snark, evasion, dishonesty, but I can't find it. Not after the emotional mountains and oceans of the past few days. I'm too raw, too open. Before I can stop myself, I'm on my feet, shouting: "Of course I need you. I'll always need you." I pause to gasp for breath. "Don't you know I'm your mate?!"


	6. Finally

Sam's POV:

2007  
May

I can feel the bullet strike the yellow-eyed demon's smoky essence. Dull pressure thuds through my heart the moment Dean's perfect shot hits home. Phantom flames tickle around my torso, spiraling up into my head, while the corruption that is yellow-eyes burns beneath the wrinkled skin of his vessel. A flash, skitter, a stutter and he's gone. All that's left is the long-dead corpse of the pitiable man he was possessing. 

I blink, gasp, as a weight I was unaware of carrying melts from my body. I'm free. 

Demon blood still fouls my veins--I can sense the impurity, the uncleanness, inside me--but the demon that could use that blood to manipulate (control?) me no longer exists. I suspect that psychic nightmares will no longer invade my sleep. I'm free.

And there's something else. I'm not sure what, precisely, has changed. But there's a clarity to my thoughts and perceptions that was previously missing. Did yellow-eyes do more to me than activate my powers and kill everyone I love?

Almost everyone.

My eyes snap to Dean. He's bloody, dirty, flushed, bedraggled. Also, glowing with pride, triumph, joy, relief. The ultimate successful warrior. He slew our nemesis!

And soon (how soon?) other demons will come for him. Since he sold his soul to bring me back to life.

How could he have done that?

*

"Don't you know I'm your mate?"

The words echo as Dean slams the door on his way out, roars off in the Impala. Leaves me speechless, shocked, frozen.

Could it be true?--Shouldn't I know? A mating is a monumental event in an alpha's life. It alters his scent; it makes him possessive, overprotective; it drives him to monogamy, to desire only his omega; it creates a bond so strong that he can tell if his mate is frightened, joyful, serene, mournful. Some of that even happens before the claiming, if it's a true pairing. As Dean seems to be hinting.

I slump back on my bed, replaying and reevaluating my memories. What am I missing?

Buzzing.

Dean presented when I was in sixth grade. At the time, my brain was obsessively focused on those mysterious creatures known as girls. What catches their interest? What attracts them? How do you get to first base with one of them? My stumbling attempts to date met with mixed results, from the utterly humiliating (puking all over my crush at a Halloween party) to the--for an eleven-year-old--sublime (a real, traditional Thanksgiving dinner culminating in my first kiss). Male omegas were barely on my radar. Until I awoke one January morning to an amazingly delicious smell. Like a pie made with the freshest, crispest apples and the most flavorful cinnamon. When I realized it was Dean, all I wanted to do was bury my nose in his neck and rub my body against his. But, buzzing. Buzzing in my mind and body until I forgot about Dean's new appeal and fell back asleep.

Buzzing four and a half years later when I presented and Dean suddenly looked utterly delectable--long eyelashes, high cheekbones, kissable lips, curvy bottom. I wanted him so much I nearly took him right in front of Dad. Five minutes of buzzing later, I'd lost all interest.

Buzzing the night I left for Stanford, when I gazed down into wet green eyes. When I almost slept with him after defeating the Woman in White. When I woke up after Dad's burning and realized we'd shared a bed . . . .

Every time I started to recognize Dean as my mate, I was distracted by intense buzzing until I no longer saw the truth.

So. I led my brother on before rejecting him. Over and over and over.

Will he ever forgive me?--Or has yellow-eyes succeeded in taking the person I love the most--the one with whom I'm meant to spend my life--away from me?

I have to find him.

*

Luckily, Dean's predictable. There's a dive bar a few blocks from the motel--I noticed it as we were driving into town--and, sure enough, that's where I spot the Impala.

When I open the door, I'm hit with a cacophony of rough voices and a haze of thick, smoky, noisome air. I wrinkle my nose. Guess this part of the country hasn't implemented an indoor smoking ban. Oh, I hate that stench. It reminds me of the endless lonely motel rooms of my childhood, watching Dad chain smoke while cleaning weapons, scouring newspapers, writing in his journal. Longing for a rare moment of affection, or even attention that isn't in the form of an order.

I nearly turn around--nearly decide to wait for Dean in our room.

But. There he is. At the bar. Flirting with a blonde beta. Of course.

A familiar sight, but mine is not a familiar reaction. The entire bar takes on a red tinge, my fangs slide free, my fists clench. I want to grab that girl, thrust her away from Dean. I want to throw him over my shoulder, carry him out of the bar. I want to wrap my arms around my brother, growl at anyone who dares to look at him. Wow. I blink away this jealous irrationality. The red fades away. I've always disliked Dean's hook-ups, but I've never wanted to punch one before. 

Dean turns around. Did he hear me (in this noise?), smell me (in this reek?), sense me?

Our eyes meet.

He raises an eyebrow, lifts a cigarette to his mouth, takes a slow, deliberate drag, his jade eyes glinting defiantly.

I'm pummeled by an assault of conflicting emotions. Disgust. I've always found smoking to be an utterly revolting habit. Desire. Dean sucking on a cylindrical object, blowing smoke through those full pink lips. It's unbelievably, unbearably sexy. Anger. How could he do this to himself?--There's no way he doesn't know how dangerous smoking is. How addictive. How destructive. Protectiveness. I want to fling that cancer stick away from him. I want to see if I can use my (now dormant) demon powers to remove all traces of nicotine from his system. Sadness. Dean has always had a streak of self-loathing accompanied by a disregard for his own well-being. He engages in unhealthy behaviors because he doesn't think he'll live long enough for any of them to matter. And because he thinks he deserves any pain that comes his way if he does somehow live long enough. 

Dean smirks at the no doubt entertaining play of expressions on my face. "You gonna make me quit again, Sammy?" He inhales another lungful of poison.

"I . . . what?" I know I was rather self-absorbed back then, but I'm pretty sure that Dean quit before I presented. Didn't he? 

He looks down, shaking his head. "Of course, you don't remember. But then, you somehow managed to miss the fact that you claimed me." There's a tinge of furious omega gold around his irises when he lifts his head, meets my flabbergasted stare.

"I don't . . . ." Did that demon alter my perceptions so powerfully that I couldn't feel a mating bond? How is that possible? Just who was this prince of monsters Dean managed to kill?

Dean lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head again. "Well, you're free of it now. 'Til death do us part' only works until death. Guess it nullifies alpha commands, too. It's why I can smoke again." He solutes me with his cigarette before returning it to his (luscious) mouth.

So my irritable teenage self ordered him to stop smoking? That actually makes a lot of sense. I was an insufferable prick back then. At least, I didn't deliberately use my alpha voice on him. "Look," I say, "could we talk outside?" A group of men around the pool table break into loud, drunken cheers. I wince. "Where it's quiet?"

"Sure." He shrugs, stubs out his smoke, swallows the remainder of his whiskey. He hops off his bar stool with the fluid grace of a panther. Pauses. Pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and hands it to the girl he'd been making eyes at. "This time, it's my decision." He winks at me before striding out the door.

*

We're facing each other in front of the Impala, arms crossed, eyes unblinking, mirroring each other.

"So, yellow-eyes was messing around with your mind all these years?" Dean still sounds skeptical.

"I think so." I frown. "I mean, it makes sense. He was trying to isolate all of us. Killing our families and significant others. He killed Dad and Jess. I guess he wanted me to hunt with you but not be happy. Still feel unfulfilled or whatever."

Dean considers this. "Okay. But I still don't get why he didn't just kill me." He bites his lip. "Wouldn't you feel more desperate or unfulfilled or depressed or however he wanted you to feel if we were together as mates and then I died?"

He has a point. Although . . . . "He wanted me hunting. I wouldn't hunt without you." I meet his gaze. There's a glimmer in the depths. Uncertainty. A bit of hurt, a bit of hope. A window into the vulnerability that he buries. It adds to the beauty of his features, makes him breathtaking. I'm running a finger down his cheek before I realize. "Maybe it's more than that. Maybe there's something special about you. Something we don't know." I have no trouble believing my gorgeous, valiant sibling is meant for greatness.

He scoffs. "Yeah, right. There's nothing special about me. I'm just another hunter. An awesome hunter." A momentary grin. "You're the important one." The grin fades. His eyes grown hollow. "My life doesn't matter. Besides, demons are coming for me in a year."

The world flashes scarlet. "Not if I can help it." My voice is a deep, raspy snarl.

He bares his neck submissively, perhaps unconsciously. An omega placating his alpha.

That lovely, smooth, pale neck, dotted with freckles, lightly scarred from the mating I cannot remember, was not allowed to feel. I long to touch, to scent. "May I?" I ask, gesturing at his throat.

He nods, swallowing.

One step closer and I'm burying my face in his neck, sniffing. Nothing. He smells of nothing but beta cologne. I lick my hand and rub, rub, rub. Sniff again. There. Oh. OH! Fresh apple pie with undercurrents of cinnamon and caramel and just a hint of cardamom. My fangs descend. My breath quickens. My jeans tighten. Mate. I didn't doubt that he was, but how different it is to feel it.

Dean is trembling in my arms, his pulse pounding against my lips (When did I start kissing his neck?), his scent intensifying. I pull back a little, capture his whimper of protest with my mouth. He tastes of whiskey and (disgustingly) smoke, but beneath that is the sweet, intense flavor of pure omega. My omega.

I push him back against the Impala, devouring his mouth, caressing his body, pulling at his clothes. In response, he claws my back, twists one leg around me, moans "Alpha!'

With a growl, I press him harder against the car, lift his legs so they wrap around my waist, grind against him. "Motel," I manage to grit out. "Need to get to the motel."

"Can't wait," comes the gasping reply. Dean's eyes are completely golden, the seat of his jeans damp from gushing slick.

"Okay." I wrench open the backseat door so we can tumble inside. We're more wrestling than embracing as we tear off our clothes, biting as much as kissing, scratching, bruising, poking. It's glorious. Then. He's laid out in front of me, naked chest heaving, bowed legs spread wide, enticingly sweet-scented slick puddling. Some primal part of me wants nothing more than to pound him into the bench seat. Too bad there really isn't enough room.

I take a moment to rub his groin, mouth his nipples, suck on his neck, kiss his lips. "Hurry!" he orders. I smile at his adorable bossiness as I flip him on top of me. A startled laugh blooms from his chest. His eyes sparkle as he looks down at my face, straddles my waist, lowers himself onto me, connects us in the closest way possible.

I've been with many omegas, more than Dean realizes because I'm more private, more discrete than he is. It's always incredible, since their bodies were made to receive alphas, made to receive knots. This, though, is on a whole other stratosphere. It's like shooting off into the stars for an adventure while simultaneously relaxing at home by a roaring fire. My knot is swelling embarrassingly fast. Dean leans over me, baring his neck, "Claim me," he whispers.

Precome spurts, my knot expands. I didn't know how much I wanted this, didn't know that I've wanted this since Dean presented, didn't know because I was prevented from knowing. "Are you sure?" I gasp.

A smirk. "Always been sure, Sammy."

I surge upward, sink my teeth into his neck just as my knot catches on his womb. His answering sigh grows into an ecstatic scream as he comes, splashing warmly over my chest. My own pleasure crashes into me when Dean collapses atop me. 

*

Dean is dozing on top of me. My knot long since shrank and slipped out, but I'm not going to move my brother--my mate!--when it's so rare that he really, deeply sleeps. I'm running my fingers up and down his back, luxuriating in the feel of his warm, soft skin and his relaxed muscles. I came so close to never having this. And I will never allow anyone to take it--Dean--from me.

I will save Dean from this demon deal. Whatever it takes. And, if I don't succeed, the denizens of Hell had better tremble because I will destroy them all. I will launch an invasion into Hell itself if necessary, make war on Death and all his reapers, even assault Heaven and all its angels. 

Dean belongs with me.


End file.
